


Cowlick

by QueenofBaws (Sisterwives)



Category: Silent Hill
Genre: Drabble Request, F/M, Pre-Silent Hill 2, Silent Hill 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:14:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/QueenofBaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pillow talk was never his specialty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cowlick

He had only just begun to stir from his dreams, caught still in the heavy world of twilight sleep. His body only seemed to sink further into the mattress as he realized he was waking, unable to bring himself to so much as reach up to rub the sleep from his eyes. It wasn’t often, nowadays, that he was able to get a full and restful night’s sleep, and it didn’t seem unreasonable that he should be allowed to lie in peace, for a few minutes more.

The room was quiet, save for the soothing whisper of early autumn air breezing through the windowpane, left open just a crack to lessen the stuffiness of the balmy night. There was a faint rustling as he turned his face toward the draft and away from the smothering fluff of his pillow, reveling in the scent of the last mowed lawn of the season, the beginnings of a cold snap, the few remaining roses climbing their way up the trellis in the garden. It was the sort of morning he had missed so terribly, had craved so intimately.

Lying there, crisp sheets pulled to his chest, Mary’s fingers carding through his hair, his body lax and weightless as flotsam in the tide, it was difficult to imagine life had ever been any other way.

As he slowly opened his eyes, the world around him began to take shape. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, sending lacy shadows dancing across the hardwood flooring. The clock was on Mary’s side of the room, and he couldn’t find enough energy or willpower to roll over, and so he estimated the early hour by the light and the rumbling in his stomach.

“Should I make breakfast?” he asked, unable to keep from smiling, the therapeutic pressure of her fingertips on his scalp making it even more impossible to rouse himself. When there was no response, his brow knit slightly, confused by her failure to acknowledge him. “Mary?” he tried, though the word caught in his throat as its implications hit him full force, suddenly excruciatingly awake, distressingly aware.

He sat up quickly enough to send stars shooting across his line of vision, heart pounding so hard in his throat that he found his breath momentarily choked. The world shifted under him and he fell to the floor, pushing himself as far from the bed as he could, stopping only when his back smacked against the nightstand. He grabbed at the crown of his head with both hands, gasping sharply at what he found.

For a long while, he simply stared at the bed, trying to even out his breath and ignore the hot prickling in the corners of his eyes. Because Mary was dead and the bed was empty.

But his hair was tousled and finger-combed.

 


End file.
